Scribe not tailored to be man of the cloth

As far as I'm concerned, members of the clergy deserve our respect. They don't have the easiest job in the world, trying to save our souls or at least keeping us on the reasonably straight and narrow.

And I can identify somewhat with their role in society. Years ago, I took an occupational aptitude test that indicated I should consider a career in the church or in education. I didn't come close to either, as it turned out, but like ministers, priests and rabbis, I've been crafting these weekly sermons, of a sort, for half a century. So I guess I might have been able to handle that part of the job. But my personal life suggests I probably would have fallen short in more fundamental ways. The truth is that my relationships with persons of the cloth have not always gone as well as they might.

Four for-instances:

1. My first wife was Catholic, and my family was Protestant when we attended church, which wasn't often. In preparation for our wedding, we were required to meet with a priest to discuss a number of matters, including the religious faith of our progeny. Well, the subject never came up, and I quickly concluded we were off the hook, so to speak. Ten minutes after we got back home, the phone rang, and the young curate we'd just seen confessed he'd overlooked one item, would we kindly return? We did, and after some discussion that led nowhere, I was signed on as an appropriate father-to-be. Not a great beginning.

2. When our first child was born, we didn't get him baptized as soon as the church apparently requires. At the ceremony, another priest lectured us for being late. He told us that if the baby had passed away before baptism, his place in heaven would have been seriously jeopardized. "Are you serious?" I asked him. "What kind of God would punish an innocent infant for a technical offense committed by its parents?" A kick in my shins ended the discussion, but a happy ceremony suddenly became grim.

3. Fast forward 16 years. It is the week of the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. I am parked outside the church where my wife and two children are attending Mass. My wife brings them out, and asks us to wait while she has a word with her pastor. Shortly after, she returns in tears. "What happened?" I asked. She had trouble getting the words out. "I pointed out to him that not a word was uttered from the altar about the killing. He put an arm on my shoulder, and said, 'Why, my dear, he wasn't Catholic.' "

4. Three years after her death, from complications of multiple sclerosis, I met my old college sweetheart. She had lost her husband to a heart attack, and we soon decided to marry. She was from an Episcopalian background, so we sought out a clergyman of that faith and asked if he would perform the ceremony in his church. He told us that he might be able to officiate, but that first we would be required to meet with him for three sessions of marriage counseling. We wanted to tell him that with the 98 years of marriage experience we had between us, we didn't feel the need for a refresher course. What we did tell him, essentially, was thanks anyway, and our ceremony was performed by a judge — who judged not.

I suppose if I'd followed the recommendations of that aptitude test and become a member of the clergy myself, I might have had better insight about life behind the altar. Let me just say I greatly admire the present pope, and I wish him nothing but the best. End of sermon.

Reach Sid McKeen at mckeensidney@gmail.com.

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